Comment "apprivoiser" Caliban ?

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Comment "apprivoiser" Caliban ?

Message par Robin le Jeu 30 Mai 2013 - 7:35

Caliban est le titre d'un "stabile" d'Alexander Calder qui orne le hall de la maison de la Culture de Bourges, depuis 1964, l'année de son inauguration par le général de Gaulle, en présence d'André Malraux, alors ministre de la culture.

C'est en participant à une visite guidée avec des élèves d'un club théâtre que j'appris le nom de cette oeuvre monumentale dont la forme fait penser à un cheval.

La jeune femme qui nous servait de guide nous indiqua qu'il s'agissait d'un personnage de La Tempête de Shakespeare.

Je me renseignai le soir-même et je découvris que Caliban était "un être monstrueux et vil, esclave du mage Prospero et fils de la sorcière Sycorax".

"Le duc de Milan, Prospero, après avoir été déchu et exilé par son frère, se retrouve avec sa fille Miranda sur une île déserte. Grâce à la magie que lui confèrent ses livres, il maîtrise les éléments naturels et les esprits, notamment Ariel, esprit positif de l'air et du souffle de vie, ainsi que Caliban, être négatif symbolisant la terre, la violence et la mort...

Caliban : un être mal dégagé de l'animalité (Calder le voit sous l'aspect d'un cheval sauvage), fruste et ignorant, aux réactions dangereusement imprévisibles...

Son nom serait l'anagramme de "canibal" et le personnage aurait (toujours au conditionnel) été inspiré à Shakespeare par la lecture de l'essai de Montaigne Des cannibales.

Dans le contexte particulier de la colonisation, Caliban fut pris comme symbole de l’indigène opprimé. C'est le cas dans la pièce d'Aimé Césaire intitulé non pas "La" mais "Une" Tempête.

Quant aux intentions de Calder, impossible d'en trouver la moindre trace.

Mais Caliban en plein milieu du hall d'une Maison de la Culture, n'est-ce pas tout un symbole ?

... Un symbole porteur, comme tous les symboles, de plus d'interrogations que de réponses : qu'est-ce que la culture ? A quoi sert-elle ? Y a-t-il une ou plusieurs cultures ? Une culture donnée peut-elle s'arroger le droit de dominer ou de nier les autres cultures ? La culture prémunit-elle contre la barbarie ? George Steiner a montré que non avec l'exemple de l'Allemagne nazie, mais alors elle est un scandale pour l'esprit, une dissociation intolérable.

"Quatuor Rosé. Au milieu de cette splendide oeuvre tardive, l'adagio de l'opus 125 de Beethoven, je sens sourdre en moi une question : comment est-il possible que dans le monde où existe une telle splendeur, en ce moment, à cette heure précise des hommes se déchirent à coups d'obus ? Question sans réponse. Tandis que résonnaient les sons divins, cela était pour moi plus insaisissable que la mort même", écrivait dans son Journal, le 14 décembre 1915, l'écrivain autrichien Stefan Zweig. Sigmund Freud, dont il fut l'ami et le biographe montrera dans Malaise dans la Civilisation (1929) que cette dualité s'enracine dans les profondeurs de la psyché humaine.

Caliban, cependant, nous interroge. C'est cet élève qui demande "pourquoi qu'on fait du français, on l'sait d'jà" (sic !) ou qui soutient que "le théâtre ça sert à rien" (resic !), Caliban, ce sont ces gens innombrables qui n'ouvrent jamais un livre, ne vont jamais au théâtre, n'assistent jamais au moindre concert, ne mettent jamais les pieds dans les maisons de la culture... Toute une partie du "public captif" de l'Ecole. Tous ceux que la culture n'a pas touchés ou peu touchés ou mal touchés.

Caliban, c'est cet enfant perdu des banlieues (littéralement "des lieux de mise au banc", de relégation), dont le vocabulaire ne dépasse pas trois cents mots, qui brûle son école et sa bibliothèque.

... Mais pas seulement l'enfant perdu des banlieues, car désormais, en dehors de quelques établissements "privilégiés" de centre-ville, Caliban tend à devenir la norme. Ce n'est un secret pour personne, hormis pour Messieurs Baudelot et Establet et pour la Direction de l'Evaluation et de la Prospective du Ministère de l'Education nationale que le niveau des élèves en français (orthographe, grammaire, syntaxe, vocabulaire, maîtrise de la langue parlée et écrite) est en baisse constante depuis trente ans. Une majorité de petits français sont désormais les enfants perdus de la langue.

Tout professeur, tout éducateur a affaire à Caliban, au silence buté de Caliban, à l'agitation incontrôlable de Caliban, aux mauvaises manières de Caliban.

La Journée de la jupe, l'Esquive, Entre les murs... ces trois films qui évoquent des collégiens d'aujourd'hui ne parlent que de Caliban : que faire avec Caliban ? Comment apprivoiser Caliban ?

Mais, diront certains, après tout Caliban a une "culture", lui aussi (un langage, des habitudes vestimentaires, des goûts musicaux...) et une culture en vaut une autre. Car Caliban fascine. La sous-culture ou la "contre-culture", pour rester politiquement correct a des thuriféraires enthousiastes jusque parmi les membres de la classe politique et de l'intelligentsia.

Freud, encore lui, a montré la fascination de "l'homme civilisé" pour les symboles du "narcissisme intact" : l'animal sauvage, l'enfant, la femme fatale, style "l'ange bleu". Mais cette fascination en dit long sur le "fasciné", sur la difficulté de renoncer aux "pulsions du çà" en faveur du "surmoi" qui est le propre de la civilisation.

René Girard a montré dans La voix méconnue du réel que la fascination pour le "narcissisme intact" est le vertige du désir métaphysique, de l'attirance toujours désastreuse pour le "modèle-obstacle".

Le " narcissisme intact " de Caliban...Ce n'est pas tout à fait ce qui ressort du très beau film d'Abdellatif Kechiche, L'Esquive où l'on voit des jeunes de la banlieue parisienne répéter Le Jeu de l'Amour et du hasard de Marivaux. Comme le dit leur professeur de français, la leçon de la pièce, c'est qu'il n'y a pas de hasard. Les maîtres ont beau s'habiller en valet et les valets en maîtres, les maîtres resteront toujours les maîtres et les valets les valets ; ce qui les différencie les uns des autres, ce sont des vêtements plus intimes que ceux qu'ils portent sur la peau car il font corps avec eux : les mots.

Le jeune héros du film, Abdelkrim (Krimo) restera rivé au vocabulaire de sa bande, à la "culture" de sa bande, du désœuvrement aux "embrouilles" et des embrouilles à la délinquance, aux stéréotypes et aux préjugés du milieu qui l'entoure et ne trouvera pas plus le chemin du cœur de sa belle que celui de la liberté.

Car la culture, ce n'est pas ce que l'on sait, mais ce que l'on ne sait pas. Ce n'est pas le petit monde qui nous entoure, mais le vaste univers, c'est le risque de la rencontre avec le tout autre.

Caliban en plein milieu du hall de la Maison de la Culture de Bourges : la culture hantée par ceux qu'elle indiffère, le spectre de son double, ses territoires perdus.

Que nous le voulions ou non, la culture n'est pas seulement une affaire de gens "cultivés" ; elle ne saurait être indifférente à la politique, à l'éthique.

Elle ne peut éviter de s'interroger sur elle-même, sur sa capacité à s'incarner, à renforcer le lien social, à donner du sens et du sel à la vie, à réconcilier "l'esprit de l'air" (Ariel) avec "l'esprit de la terre" (Caliban), à toucher le coeur et l'esprit de Caliban.

Robin
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Re: Comment "apprivoiser" Caliban ?

Message par Aliceinwonderland le Jeu 30 Mai 2013 - 8:15

Je trouve ce que tu as écrit très beau et très juste.

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Re: Comment "apprivoiser" Caliban ?

Message par JPhMM le Jeu 30 Mai 2013 - 8:36

Merci Robin.

Pour information, Caliban est présent dans la Science-Fiction.
Chez Herbert d'abord (L’Étoile et le Fouet) où les Calibans sont les plus étranges des co-sentiences (intelligences extraterrestres).
Chez Dan Simmons ensuite, dans les remarquables romans de "literary science fiction" Ilium et Olympos ( http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ilium/Olympos ), où les mots de Caliban sont extraits de Caliban upon Setebos.

Spoiler:
Caliban upon Setebos
By Robert Browning

"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."
(David, Psalms 50.21)

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:
And while above his head a pompion-plant,
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,
And now a flower drops with a bee inside,
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,—
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please,
Touching that other, whom his dam called God.
Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha,
Could He but know! and time to vex is now,
When talk is safer than in winter-time.
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep
In confidence he drudges at their task,
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!
'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.

'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match,
But not the stars; the stars came otherwise;
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that:
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon,
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease:
He hated that He cannot change His cold,
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish
That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived,
And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine
O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid,
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave;
Only, she ever sickened, found repulse
At the other kind of water, not her life,
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun)
Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe,
And in her old bounds buried her despair,
Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle,
Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.
Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,
That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown
He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye
By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue
That pricks deep into oak warts for a worm,
And says a plain word when she finds her prize,
But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves
That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks
About their hole—He made all these and more,
Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else?
He could not, Himself, make a second self
To be His mate; as well have made Himself:
He would not make what He mislikes or slights,
An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains:
But did, in envy, listlessness or sport,
Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be—
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few,
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while,
Things He admires and mocks too,—that is it.
Because, so brave, so better though they be,
It nothing skills if He begin to plague.
Look, now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash,
Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived,
Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,—
Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all,
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain;
Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme,
And wanton, wishing I were born a bird.
Put case, unable to be what I wish,
I yet could make a live bird out of clay:
Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban
Able to fly?—for, there, see, he hath wings,
And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire,
And there, a sting to do his foes offence,
There, and I will that he begin to live,
Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns
Of grigs high up that make the merry din,
Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not.
In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay,
And he lay stupid-like,—why, I should laugh;
And if he, spying me, should fall to weep,
Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong,
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,—
Well, as the chance were, this might take or else
Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry,
And give the mankin three sound legs for one,
Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg
And lessoned he was mine and merely clay.
Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme,
Drinking the mash, with brain become alive,
Making and marring clay at will? So He.

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him,
Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.
'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs
That march now from the mountain to the sea;
'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.
'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;
'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm,
And two worms he whose nippers end in red;
As it likes me each time, I do: so He.

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main,
Placable if His mind and ways were guessed,
But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!
Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,
And envieth that, so helped, such things do more
Than He who made them! What consoles but this?
That they, unless through Him, do nought at all,
And must submit: what other use in things?
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint
That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay
When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue:
Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay
Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt:
Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth
"I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing,
I make the cry my maker cannot make
With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!'
Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?
Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that,
What knows,—the something over Setebos
That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought,
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.
There may be something quiet o'er His head,
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief,
Since both derive from weakness in some way.
I joy because the quails come; would not joy
Could I bring quails here when I have a mind:
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch,
But never spends much thought nor care that way.
It may look up, work up,—the worse for those
It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos
The many-handed as a cuttle-fish,
Who, making Himself feared through what He does,
Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar
To what is quiet and hath happy life;
Next looks down here, and out of very spite
Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real,
These good things to match those as hips do grapes.
'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport.
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books
Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle:
Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped,
Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words;
Has peeled a wand and called it by a name;
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe
The eyed skin of a supple oncelot;
And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole,
A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch,
Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye,
And saith she is Miranda and my wife:
'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane
He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge;
Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared,
Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame,
And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge
In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban;
A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.
'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way,
Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.
His dam held that the Quiet made all things
Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so.
Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.
Had He meant other, while His hand was in,
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,
Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow,
Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint
Like an orc's armour? Ay,—so spoil His sport!
He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.
Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why?
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast
Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose,
But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate
Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.
Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,
Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,
By no means for the love of what is worked.
'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world
When all goes right, in this safe summer-time,
And he wants little, hungers, aches not much,
Than trying what to do with wit and strength.
'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs,
And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk,
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each,
And set up endwise certain spikes of tree,
And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top,
Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.
No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake;
'Shall some day knock it down again: so He.

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!
One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.
He hath a spite against me, that I know,
Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?
So it is, all the same, as well I find.
'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm
With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises
Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave,
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,
And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.
'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)
Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade:
Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!
'Dug up a newt He may have envied once
And turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone.
Please Him and hinder this?—What Prosper does?
Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!
There is the sport: discover how or die!
All need not die, for of the things o' the isle
Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees;
Those at His mercy,—why, they please Him most
When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!
Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.
You must not know His ways, and play Him off,
Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself:
'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears
But steals the nut from underneath my thumb,
And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:
'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise,
Curls up into a ball, pretending death
For fright at my approach: the two ways please.
But what would move my choler more than this,
That either creature counted on its life
To-morrow and next day and all days to come,
Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart,
"Because he did so yesterday with me,
And otherwise with such another brute,
So must he do henceforth and always."—Ay?
Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means!
'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus,
And we shall have to live in fear of Him
So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change,
If He have done His best, make no new world
To please Him more, so leave off watching this,—
If He surprise not even the Quiet's self
Some strange day,—or, suppose, grow into it
As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we,
And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.
His dam held different, that after death
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends:
Idly! He doth His worst in this our life,
Giving just respite lest we die through pain,
Saving last pain for worst,—with which, an end.
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself,
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,
Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both.
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball
On head and tail as if to save their lives:
Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,
And always, above all else, envies Him;
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,
Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,
And never speaks his mind save housed as now:
Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here,
O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?"
'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off,
Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,
Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste:
While myself lit a fire, and made a song
And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate
To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate
For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?"
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend,
Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime,
That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once!
Crickets stop hissing: not a bird—or, yes,
There scuds His raven that has told Him all!
It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move,
And fast invading fires begin! White blaze—
A tree's head snaps—and there, there, there, there, there,
His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!
Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!
'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip,
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month
One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]

_________________
Labyrinthe où l'admiration des ignorants et des idiots qui prennent pour savoir profond tout ce qu'ils n'entendent pas, les a retenus, bon gré malgré qu'ils en eussent. D'ailleurs, il n'y a point de meilleur moyen pour mettre en vogue ou pour défendre des doctrines étranges et absurdes, que de les munir d'une légion de mots obscurs, douteux , et indéterminés. Ce qui pourtant rend ces retraites bien plus semblables à des cavernes de brigands ou à des tanières de renards qu'à des forteresses de généreux guerriers. Que s'il est malaisé d'en chasser ceux qui s'y réfugient, ce n'est pas à cause de la force de ces lieux-là, mais à cause des ronces, des épines et de l'obscurité des buissons dont ils sont environnés. Car la fausseté étant par elle-même incompatible avec l'esprit de l'homme, il n'y a que l'obscurité qui puisse servir de défense à ce qui est absurde. — John Locke

JPhMM
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